


like the leaves after a long winter

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Holidays, everything i write is about depression/etc so take from that what you will, hurt/comfort???, idk how to tag things anymore but here's a hint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 20:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13465518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: Prompt from abaan-asaara: "It's the first Christmas/Satinalia since Leandra's death, and Hawke is not in the mood for festivities -- until she realizes that everyone else will be spending it alone and finds herself hosting a party without even meaning to."I've decided to go against fandom tradition and use First Day/Wintermarch as a more New-Years-y holiday, based on when the winter holiday takes place in the Dragon Age calendar. I'm very late posting this since the holidays have been over for a While, whoops!





	like the leaves after a long winter

Hawke’s plan for the holiday had been to stay inside. Not just out of the cold—she hadn’t really planned on leaving bed at all, if she could help it. Fake an illness, maybe, although she didn’t like to make Orana worry. It would worry her more if she thought Hawke wasn’t sick, though. She had barely left bed for weeks, after her mo—

After.

So the second-to-last day of Haring, Hawke drags herself from the house. If she goes out, she can conceivably catch a cold. And then no one can complain if she stays indoors until the first week of Wintermarch is over. She can spend First Day sulking alone in her giant, empty house.

No, she chides herself. It’s not empty. She’d already told Orana she had the day off, and she hoped the girl would take the opportunity to go out—she knew she chatted with the young woman at the vegetable stand on Tuesday mornings, at least. And Bodahn and Sandal would be at home with each other, if the girl needed more company. The three of them would be fine, together. Hawke had briefly entertained the thought of dropping in on her uncle to escape the Estate—but Gamlen couldn’t even _look_ at her the last time she was there, and the memory hasn’t become any less unbearable. Even being alone would be better than that.           

So for now—Hawke goes through the motions.

 

 

She stops by Anders’ clinic first. She’s had a bundle of elfroot and spindleweed slowly wilting on her desk for three days now, and it’s clear she isn’t going to get around to any potion making before it becomes useless. He hasn’t had time to come out to the coast with her in a few weeks, so Hawke figures he’ll get more use out of it than she will. The frost-heavy air does nothing to help the state of the plants as she walks, and the hand that clutches them is white and stiff by the time she edges through the door to his clinic.

There are more people inside than she expects. She hadn’t heard of any plagues or serious illnesses going around, but whatever he’s been dealing with is apparently more than a few cases of frostbite and colds. Anders doesn’t even notice her arrive, he’s so focused on the coughing boy laid on the cot in front of him, his hands glowing as they press firmly against the child’s bare chest. So, Hawke sets the bouquet of stems down on a table, and rolls up her sleeves. She can’t do the same deep healing he can, rooting out the illness at its core. But she moves from huddled figure to huddled figure, mending cuts and breaks and tears where she can.

After an hour, perhaps two, the clinic is—not empty, but, the ones left are those lying in the beds, rather than waiting for help. Anders sits back with a heavy sigh, rolling his neck in a circle with a grimace as he stretches.

“Has it been this busy all day?” Hawke asks, concerned. There’s always circles under Ander’s eyes, but they are darker and deeper than she remembers.

He nods, and stands, moving into the tiny back room that is his alone. Hawke follows, until they are out of earshot of the patients.

“All week, more like,” he admits. “There’s been an outbreak of frost-cough in Darktown. I’ve been telling everyone to come here as soon as they have every symptoms, before it spreads to Lowtown and further.”

Hawke frowns. “I haven’t heard about this at all.”

“That’s because there’s almost no chance it’ll spread to Hightown,” Anders replies wryly. “These things only become street gossip when they might affect people the city actually values.”

Hawke winces, although she knows he doesn't mean _her_. Still. She’s never going to get used to living in high society, she thinks. “When did you last eat?” she asks instead, unable to keep a hint of accusation out of her voice.

Anders stares at her, pondering. “Lunch,” he finally says.

“Lunch on what _day?_ ”

He shrugs, and Hawke frowns. “You can’t expect to anyone if you’re also falling apart. Come eat dinner with us tonight.”

He is shaking his head before she can finish the offer. “I can’t. I won’t have anyone I trust who can watch things for me until tomorrow, and I’m almost out of poultices. I’ll have to make more tonight to make up for what I need to take to the alienage, I just can’t get the elves to stay here overnight—”

“Okay,” Hawke agrees, raising her palms in defeat. “The night after, then. At least stop by and take something with you. Oh, and I brought you some elfroot and spindleweed, they’re on your desk.”

He is too exhausted to look actually thankful, but he smiles at her anyway, as though she somehow deserves it.

“And I’ll take those poultices to the alienage for you now,” she adds. “ _If_ you take a nap.”

 

 

It isn’t until after she’s three streets away that Hawke realizes the day after tomorrow is the very holiday she’d been planning to avoid. She frowns. Well, she can cook something for them herself. She doubts Anders will stay long—he’s probably forgotten there’s a holiday at all, to be honest—and it’ll keep the others in the house from paying attention to her, she hopes. Then she can go back to pretending the world doesn’t exist.

She looks down at the smudged parchment in her hand as she walks. It’s a list from Anders of who specifically to deliver the bottles of plaster and medicine to, but the addresses mostly read “Old Anne, Across From The Tree” and “Da Nolen, Nearby The Last Alley, Mind The Dog.” Notes mostly useful once you’d been there already, or perhaps, the closest thing to a description it was possible to coax out of someone already near-delirious with fever.

So instead, she goes straight to Merrill’s tiny cottage. The entryway looks fresh-swept, and as Hawke knocks, she notices a small spring of evergreen carefully hanging on the door.

“Oh, just one moment, I’m so sorry—” Hawke makes out through the wood, and then the door swings open to reveal Merrill, who smiles as she recognizes her visitor. “Oh, Hawke! I wasn’t expecting you, please come in—don’t mind the mess, swear I was in the middle of cleaning just this morning when I got distracted—”

Hawke looks around the room, which is at least twice as tidy as her own, as always. There’s a glass on the table with more green boughs in it, and a scrap of red ribbon draped across the hearth.

“Decorating for the holidays?” Hawke asks.

“Oh! Yes,” Merrill replies, grinning. “It’s quite different than the celebration for the Dalish new year, but I thought it would look festive.

Is there something you needed?”

“I was hoping for a favor, actually.” Hawke moves to set her full satchel down on the table, but almost knocks a book to the floor with her bulging bag. “What’s this?” The font used on the cover is so swirling and flourished that she can’t actually make out the words of the title, although the barely-clothed man on the front is enough to answer most speculation.

“Oh, that’s from Isabela,” Merrill tells her, glancing at the book. “She told me it would be ‘educational’, although I’ve only read a few pages and I’m not sure what she expects me to learn from a book that takes place in a brothel. Different diseases, I suppose? Perhaps I should give it to Anders.”

Hawke opens her mouth, and then closes it. _Not today_ , she thinks, and sets the book back down.

“Actually, Anders sent me with these,” she says as she gestures to the shoulder bag on the table filled with bottles, the glass clinking gently as Merrill curiously opens it. “But I haven’t a clue what to deliver to who, now that I’m here. Can you help me sort them out?” Hawke pulls the paper he'd given her out of her pocket.

Merrill takes the offered list, squinting down at the names. “Certainly,” she says. “Though I can see why it’d give you trouble. Here, I’ll point out the first three, and when you’re done with those, you can come back for the rest.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” Hawke suggests. “Then I can carry everything at once without getting mixed up.”

The woman hesitates, her lips parted as though on the verge of speech, but then she turns away, a blush rising in her pale cheeks. “I think it would be best if I didn’t go with you,” she says softly, looking out the window. “Some of the elves here don’t like me. I don’t think it would help for me to go poking into their homes.”

Something nearly sparks inside Hawke, then—a fluttering that almost leads to the familiar _anger_ before it flops back down into the apathy that has become her daily existence. She doesn’t push it, as Merrill takes out the bottles and sorts them into groups based on Anders’ note, but—it doesn’t feel right. That even after these years and everything the quiet cheerful elf has done for this city, the same old mistrust prevails.

 

It takes three trips after all, because Hawke’s short term memory seems to have left her with the rest of her emotions, but the proper bottles are all finally distributed—although two of the recipients either weren’t home, or refused to open the door for an unfamiliar voice. She’d left their medicine on their doorsteps, hoping that the tighter-knit community of the alienage wouldn’t lead to their instant theft, the way the bottles would vanish in the rest of Kirkwall.

“Will you be celebrating the Dalish way, then?” Hawke asks once she’s back inside Merrill’s home. The elf had insisted she at least drink some tea before heading out into the cold again.

“No, I don’t think so.” Merrill gazes down into her small mug. “The elves here have different traditions. It seems silly to go to all the trouble when it’s just going to be me.”

That flicker of _something_ swells again inside Hawke, as she realizes Merrill is probably excluded from whatever celebration the rest of them will be having, and her mouth is moving before she realizes what’s happening.

“Well, stop by my house for dinner, then. Anders will be there too, it’s no trouble at all.”

Merrill’s eyes light up at the offer, and Hawke’s stomach drops.

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble…”

“Of course not,” Hawke responds, lying through her teeth.

“I’ll bring hearthcakes to cook on the fire after dinner. Oh, that is, if you want them? I’m not sure how you celebrate the holiday, I don’t mean to impose—”

“Dalish hearthcakes would be _lovely_ ,” Hawke tells her firmly and there is simply no going back now, not with those great green eyes beaming at her like they contain all the joy in the world that Hawke no longer feels.

Well, Hawke considers as she bundles herself back into her cloak and steps into the street, it’s only dinner and cake. She can make it through just a couple hours of pretending the world isn’t a shattered shell of what it should be, and the empty spaces inside her house are more than a giant gaping wound. As long as she doesn’t cook that damn stew Father used to make every year, the one that Moth—

 

 

Hawke comes back to herself as she is walking up to the Hanged Man. She doesn’t remember the trip—or why specifically she’s headed this way—but if her feet have decided she deserves a drink, then by the Maker she is going to have one.

A chilly gust accompanies her into the tavern, but once she’s shoved the door firmly closed again, she feels the warm air slowly work its way through the layers of her clothing. The air might smell like stale beer and her boots stick to the floor with every step, but the place has become a familiar constant in her increasingly turbulent life. There’s a garland stretched across the mantle, evergreen, with bright red dragonthorn berries tied into it.

“Good day, messere Hawke,” Corff greets her as she leans against the bar. “Anything I can get you?”

“Just the house ale, thanks. Heard any news lately?”

“Well ah, let me think,” he says, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his chin. “There’s a ship in this morning from Highever. Man who was on it was in here earlier saying there’s a big storm brewing off the coast. Wouldn’t be surprised if it comes to shore any day now.”

“Hmm,” Hawke considers, taking the mug from him. “Guess I’ll be staying indoors, then.”

He laughs, the sound deeper than she expected and booming through the half-empty room, as she hands over the coins. “If anyone in this city thought that weather was enough to keep you inside, every scoundrel in town would be praying nightly for rain.”

Hawke blinks in surprise, saved from responding by a shout from the back corner.

“Oy! Pretty lady! I think you owe me five silver.”

“Only until I win it back from you next week,” Hawke calls to Isabela, shaking her head as she walks to the table the pirate shares with Varric.

“Day drinking already, Hawke? Aren’t you a little young for that?” Varric asks, grinning as he leans back in his chair.

“Aren’t you a little short to be making fun of the lady holding a full cup above your head?” It’s funny, the way the jokes tumble from her lips even as she feels nothing inside. By which she means, it’s not really funny at all. But Isabela snorts, and Varric shifts his chair over to make room for her, so Hawke sits.

“Tell me you’ve come to save me from boredom,” Isabela complains. “Anyone need help finding a lost dog? Lost amulet? Lost man-in-need-of-a-good-stabbing?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Hawke says, taking a drink. “Today I’m on errand duty, apparently.”

“Damn,” Isabela huffs, sliding back in her chair with a pout.

“No one’s committing crimes because it’s _freezing_ out, I think,” Varric points out. “Even criminals would rather be inside celebrating. _You_ should know.”

“And miss the chance to throw someone into the harbor and see him bounce of the ice instead? What about it, Hawke? There’s got to be trouble _somewhere_ , it’s Kirkwall. Let’s go find it.”

“No _thank_ you,” Hawke replies firmly. “I plan on staying in bed, where it’s warm. Corff says there’s a storm heading in.”

“Fine!” Isabela sighs, kicking her feet up onto the table. “I’ll just sit here and wait for trouble to come to us instead. Bound to be some tomorrow, anyway—I hear Harlan’s giving his girls the night off for First Day; things are sure to get fun when they all show up here for a drink. You should come join the fun,” she adds, nudging Hawke’s mug of ale with her foot. “Maybe one of them has tattoos—that’s what you look for in a date, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” Hawke begins, her tongue stumbling along without her brain even as she feels her face flush bright red in the dark room. “I invited Anders and Merrill over for dinner tomorrow night. You two should come along too,” Hawke smiles cheerfully as she says it, although she wants nothing of the sort. It’s not that she doesn’t want them _not_ there; with her, instead of drinking in a bar filled with strangers instead of family, she just—doesn’t want anything. Where once before something hot and bright beat within her, now there is… nothing. Not sorrow. Not even anger, not anymore. Just an empty void; not so much the presence of a feeling as the utter absence of any. But there is no way to say that, not to them. So instead, she plasters on the grin everyone expects her to wear, her voice so sincere she might almost believe it herself. “If you can tear yourself away from the whores, that is.”

And that’s the end of things, really. They cheerfully agree, and with a sinking feeling, Hawke realizes she’s going to have to do more than throw together some soup after all. She badgers Isabela into agreeing to bring drinks, and asks Varric to pass the message along to Aveline. With a sinking feeling, she realizes that her own night has just gotten a lot busier.

 

 

She returns home three hours later, her arms piled high with greenery and ribbons. She can hardly see past it all, and nearly drops half as she struggles to unlatch and enter her front door. Her dog is there in a moment, his dense body bumping against her legs in his eagerness, making her shuffling walk no easier.

She stands half-blind in the middle of the living room for a moment, considering just dumping it all onto the ground and sorting it out that way. But before she can finish the thought, an armful of branches are lifted away, Orana’s surprised face now visible in the gap.

“I didn’t realize you were wanted to decorate, Miss,” she says as she sets the load on a table and returns for another armful. Hawke is fairly certain that if she tries to help there will be pine needles all over the floor in no time, so she stands still and lets the slender girl take another two handfuls of fresh wood. As one of her own hands emerges from the mess, her mabari lunges up to lick it, causing her to nearly fall over.

“I wasn’t going to,” Hawke admits, trying to nudge the dog down with one knee. “But there’s been a slight change of plans. You still have tomorrow off, of course, but I’ll need your help prepping some food tonight. It seems we’re going to be having a party after all.”

“Oh, really?” Orana asks, her face breaking into a smile. “How wonderful!”

“Really?” Hawke asks, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were partial to it.”

“Oh, yes. The _Verimensis_ annum was always my favorite,” she says, taking a last bundle of greenery. The formal terms for the holiday sound strange to Hawke in the young girl’s wistful tones. Hawke shifts to help lay the rest down on the table and detangle the ribbon that had been wound up so _nicely_ when she started out, and now is wrapped not only around the sticks but her arms and hair as well.

“Mostly for the food,” Orana continues. “Oh, but I won’t get in your way tomorrow, Miss.”

“Nonsense!” Hawke tells her, bending down to properly pet her dog, who immediately flops onto his back with his belly in the air once he’s gained the attention of both her hands. “You’re welcome to celebrate with us—Bodahn and Sandal, too. You still get tomorrow off though. And if I catch you working anyway, I’ll pay you double, so watch out.”

Orana is apparently in such a good mood she doesn’t even make her usual protests, merely humming softly as she begins to pick through the ribbon.

“Would you mind starting the decorations?” Hawke asks, giving the dog one last scratch before standing again. “I need to go invite Fenris, now that I’m back in Hightown.” Her voice is steady as she says his name, despite the uncomfortable tightness in her chest as that particular realization hits. “If there’s anything else you think we should have, use the house purse. And I’ll stop by the market on my way.”

 

 _Let’s see_ , she considers as she exits, combing stray needles from her hair with her fingers. They’ll need something from the butcher’s on her way home. And vegetables, those she can grab at the market before she heads to Fenris’.

She fills a whole basket with produce—and buys the basket, too, since she forgot her own—and then, since she’s out, Hawke thinks it would be nice to replenish the spice stores just in case. And extra butter from the miller’s daughter, in the corner of his stand, because Aveline had mentioned their family was still having a rough time of things, since his wife died. While she’s there, she sees the beekeeper’s come to sell the last of his saved stores for the holiday, so she gets three pots of honey and a slab of honeycomb in waxed paper, because it’d probably go well with Merrill’s cakes…

After she spend nearly twenty minutes debating whether or not she should buy a set of combs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Hawke is forced to admit that she’s not really shopping. She’s been meandering around until her fingers are numb just because she’s avoiding the next errand on her list.

Inviting Fenris.

It doesn’t make sense, she tells herself, turning her feet towards his home and firmly setting on her way. She talks to him all the time. Hell, she still _flirts_ with him, even if all he does is redden and look away and try to hide the fact that he’s smiling when she does so. Even if it’s half instinct rather than any particular feeling penetrating the numbness that has become her daily experience. What is she now, then, one of the fluttering maidens at the parties her m—that she used to have to attend? The ones who giggled and batted their eyelashes at men from across the room, then went home weeping because they didn’t have the courage to actually start a conversation themselves.

She’s not a silly girl with a crush. She’s an adult who—well—

She doesn’t know what they are to each other, really. It hasn’t mattered to her before. But now…

She’s never spent the First Day of Wintermarch without her family. The celebration may have been smaller and smaller every year, but—they’d _been there_. It feels almost wrong to be inviting the others, or at least as wrong as her limited ability to feel anything seems to allow—as though somehow she’s replacing the people she used to spend it with.

Bethany. Carver. Hell, even Gamlen, though he was seldom sober for it.

Her mother.

 

Hawke takes the long way to his mansion. Which means she walks past it the first time all the way down the street, around the corner, and then comes at it again when her eyes are dry and her nose is red and sniffly only from the cold bite of winter air.

She knocks, but there is no answer. She generally doesn’t even bother, just waltzes in, but it feels—like nothing, she realizes. Whatever she thinks she should care about—she doesn’t.

She steps inside, calling his name as she walks up the dust-laden staircase. He does not answer, and when she hovers at the edge of his bedroom, it is still and quiet inside. The fireplace has burned down to merely embers, and the room is slashed with the long, red shadows it produces.

“Fenris?” she tries once more, to be sure. But it is clear he’s not home.

She _almost_ feels disappointed. There’s nothing to be done, however, since she has no idea when he plans to return to his crumbling mansion. So she scribbles him a note inviting him to dinner and general festivities on a scrap of parchment to leave on his table instead. Then shoves it into her pocket and re-writes the message with better handwriting. The room feels eerily empty without his familiar presence, as though the ghost his former master lingers in the room. Is this how Fenris feels when he sits here? The Hawke estate isn’t the only one filled with ghosts, perhaps.

“You won’t get him back,” she says softly into the silence, on impulse. “He belongs with us, now. If he wants.”

As soon as the words are spoken, she feels foolish. She’s let herself get too sentimental, and the overloaded basket of produce is beginning to make her arm sore. So, she tosses a few logs onto the fire so the room will be warm by the time he comes home tonight—provided he _does_ come home tonight—and she hurries back down the stairs and into the bracing chill, fleeing the haunting specters from his past as well as her own.

  

 

Hawke drops her parcels onto the kitchen table with a sigh. She should have paid the butcher’s boy a silver to just run the leg of lamb home for her, but at least she hadn’t dropped anything on the way back—excepting a single potato, when she nearly toppled on a dark patch of ice between the cobbles. The last sliver of the sun has descended behind the buildings beside her house, although it will be a while before true sunset down in the lower parts of Kirkwall. Enough time to get the meat slow roasting for tomorrow’s dinner, at least. And lamb is nothing like stew.

She walks back into the living room to check the firewood stores, and stops in her tracks as she actually looks at the room, now that her view isn’t once again blocked by goods. Orana has gone all-out with the decorations, filling every free surface with pine and spruce boughs. Dozens of candles flicker from amongst the needles, and the sweet smell of pitch suffuses the room. She’s even straightened out the ribbons, red and gold bows gleaming out from the dark green leaves. The girl had also found sprigs of Prophet’s Laurel somewhere, winding the stems around the banister, dry orange-gold berries scattered within the leaves.

“Oh,” Hawke finally breathes, swallowing against the hard lump in her throat. The room looked beautiful—Orana had outdone herself. She would have to thank the girl profusely. The sight should make anyone happy; a clear sign that winter’s hold would only diminish from here. Hawke returns to the kitchen, determined not to let the young elf see the grief she can’t keep out of her expression. The last thing she wants is to make her think she’s done something wrong.

So, she seasons the meat, pours a broth over it, and sets the pan high above the hearth, so it will cook ever so slowly through the night. The vegetables and potatoes won’t cook until tomorrow, so there’s nothing left to do but put away her other impulsive purchases.

Then she quietly ascends to her bedroom, closing the door behind her, and sobs into her pillows until she falls into an aching and exhausted unconsciousness.

 

  

The sun has been up for hours by the time she drags herself from bed. It wasn’t that she hadn’t woken up; she just couldn’t seem to find the effort to do more than open her eyes and stare at the floorboards, and the slow crawl of light across them. Now, she has managed to move to a sitting position, and put on clothes. She really should take a bath, but it feels like too much effort. And she’s wasted enough time already—she should be cooking, and cleaning, and…

She stares blankly at the floor for another span of minutes instead, trying not to think about the past. Mornings are always the hardest—once she has some momentum going, she can coast along without any real effort, but starting… that’s the problem. It takes the soft whine and scratching at the door from her mabari to finally shake her into motion. She opens the door to his furiously wagging stump of a tail, scratching him on top of his wide head as she walks down stairs and goes through the motions of feeding him and letting him outside. He seems far less bothered by the cold than she is, as she shivers at the backdoor, watching him carefully sniff a twiggy dying bush. She really should do something about the garden. Orana has enough to do without additional work, and Hawke used to pride herself on knowing soil and plants and the art of growing things. Even if she’d viewed it mostly as a chore back in Lothering.

After another careful patrol around the small lawn, her dog bounds inside again, tongue lolling happily from between his teeth. He follows her as she checks the pot in the kitchen—someone’s turned the lamb, which is still gently roasting. Her companion whines hopefully at the savory smell as she checks it, but she closes the lid. Vegetables. They require no thought, at least. Hawke begins to chop.

 

 

With hours left before evening, Hawke finds herself at a loss for what to do. She doesn’t know exactly _when_ her friends will arrive; if they don’t forget, anyway. The room is decorated. Her floors are already freshly swept—she’s going to give Orana that bonus whether the girl thinks she’s earned it or not, Hawke decides.

The estate feels claustrophobic, filled with the pressing absence of those who aren’t there. The place used to seem so big; back when they’d moved in, she’d been more than happy to invite whoever she could to stay. Now the only people left besides her are the ones she invited half to combat the soft echoes of the rooms, so huge compared to what she’d grown used to in Kirkwall. But now even the lofty rafters are heavy with memory.

So she leaves, whistling sharply so her mabari can trot along at her heels. The cloud-laden sky is looming and grey, blanketing the city in every direction. Hawke is so focused on _not_ thinking as she walks that it is almost a surprise when she finds herself, once more, outside the door to Fenris’ mansion. She stares at it for a moment, making no move to knock. He probably found her note from the previous evening. And if not, Varric or Donnic has probably seen him since, and they’d mention, wouldn’t they?

It feels _important_ that Fenris be there, somehow—and—and—

The comprehension strikes her like a dropped icicle, shattering abruptly as she realizes that, at some point, she started thinking of him as family. She does with all of her companions, in a way she hadn’t noticed was happening—some force slowly rising beneath the despair wracking her body, pulling the lost and lonely members of her group firmly together around her. She can’t have her old life back, she can’t have her sister or her brother or her _mother_ but she has this; she has them.

And Fenris, perhaps the most broken and lost of them all… she wants him to be part of her life in a way she is not sure she’s entirely comfortable with. Nor would he be, if for some Maker-forsaken reason she tried to put the feeling into words. It’s more than protectiveness, or longing, and the sudden wash of _feeling_ after so much emptiness nearly knocks Hawke off her feet.

It’s too much. If he were to open the door right now, she’s not sure _what_ she would say or do. So instead, she turns, heart racing inside the tangle of her chest, and walks back down the street. She is so silent that her dog noses her hand, barking a gentle worried _hwurf_ into her palm until she scratches his ears reassuringly, lost in thought.

 

 

She has resumed her normal mask of cheerful competence by the time she makes her way home. Bodahn stands in the living room, keeping an eye on Sandal, who is carefully studying a sprig of Prophet’s Laurel from the banister.

“Ah, Hawke! Anything we can do for you for this afternoon? I have to say, my boy here is certainly taken with the decorations.”

“All praise to Orana, Bodahn,” Hawke says, sweeping her arm at the room. “I take credit only for overcooking dinner, possibly. Speaking of—I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Wintermarch,” Sandal says softly, spinning the twig between two fingers before carefully placing it back on the banister. Her mabari trots over to him for pets, and is immediately obliged.

Hawke smiles dutifully at the three of them, and drifts from the room, still struggling to decipher the fading knot of emotions inside her.

 

 

Merrill is the first to arrive. When Hawke opens the door, the elf peers up at her owlishly, a laden baking tray clutched before her chest.

“Am I late? I wasn’t sure when exactly you wanted us to come. Varric said everyone would be here, and I didn’t want to miss it…”

“Not at all,” Hawke replies, opening the door to let her in. “You’re the first one, actually.”

“Oh, Creators! Am I too early? I never know which is worse…”

“No, actually, I’d be glad for some help before everyone else arrives,” Hawke improvises on the spot. “I’m still in the middle of getting the food ready, but I meant to start some spiced wine. If you don’t mind…”

“Certainly!” Merrill chirps, brightening up, and follows Hawke back into the kitchen, setting the tray of hearth cakes on a clear bit of counter. Hawke feels as if she’s spent more time in this room today alone than she had all of the past year, but she’s the one who got herself into this mess. She pulls out a large pot and fetches three bottles of wine from the cellar—not from the front of the storeroom, but not all the way from the back, either—and Merrill chatters happily as she slices an orange and begins to rummage through the cabinets for spices.

As Hawke begins to slice the still-warm bread, Orana comes hurrying inside through the back door, all but wringing her hands in dismay as she sees Hawke working.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean to be gone for so long—“

“Nonsense!” Hawke interrupts firmly. “I’m glad you got out, it’s your day off. Is that a new dress?”

The subject change startles the girl, who blushes almost as bright red as the simple cotton garment.

“It looks _very nice_ ,” Hawke says over the stammering, and another knock echoes through the house. Orana rushes to answer it, even as Hawke wipes her hands and enters the living room to see who’s arrived.

It’s Varric, grinning broadly and already chatting up both Bodahn and Orana, while Anders stands shivering beside him in his threadbare cloak. Her dog waits next to them eagerly, tongue lolling with excitement.

“Glad you could make it,” Hawke says, although her voice comes out more worried than warm as she nudges Anders towards one of the chairs near the fire, taking his cloak as he shrugs it away. The fabric is damp at the shoulders, tiny beads of water sparkling in the feathers as she hangs it on a peg near the mantle. That storm must have finally made its way into town.

“Glad to be here, Hawke,” Varric replies as she turns back. Bodahn and Orana are chatting now, the girl’s ears still faintly pink. “It’s good to see you up and about again,” he continues, in a softer voice.

Hawke blinks, but is saved from having to respond as Merrill enters the room, a tray of mismatched mugs in hand.

“Hello, Varric, Anders! I hope you don’t mind the cups, I thought I’d spill if I had to carry out goblets…”

Hawke doesn’t say anything for a minute, merely smiling blandly and taking a cup of wine. The ceramic is warm in her palms, and the light acidic burn of the liquid in her mouth is cut by the tang of citrus and cinnamon. _Up and about_ , she muses, glancing around at the group. _Sure_. She mumbles something about checking on the food, slipping away.

The merry chatter of the room dims to a muffled hum as the kitchen door swings shut behind her, leaving Hawke alone in near-silence. She’d grown used to the rich smells growing in the room as she drifted in and out all day, but they hit her afresh now: fatty roasted meat, sweet oranges and cloves, fresh bread. It isn’t the stew her father would have made, and it the spices in the wine aren’t the ones Mother would have picked, and there’s no sweet buns, Bethany’s favorite, practically drenched in icing—

Hawke stuffs the knuckle of her forefinger into her mouth, biting down hard to keep her lips from trembling; squeezing her eyes shut before they can form tears. That’s how she’d _planned_ it. She didn’t _want_ the reminders, that nothing would ever be the same again. This is fine, it should be _easier_...

Her jaw flexes reflexively, and the sharp jerk of pain makes her gasp, snapping her back from the past. Red dents form a circle on her finger, and she rubs them with her thumb as she mechanically removes the roasting pan from above the cookfire, setting it on a stone slab. When she tastes a sliver the meat, it is savory and tender, with a hint of rosemary that Orana must have added as it cooked. Hawke stands unthinking for another full minute, until one by one her thoughts return to her, and she opens the door back into the front parlor.

She enters the room to a hearty guffaw from Bodahn, who is grinning at Isabela. The woman waves to Hawke cheerfully, crooking a thumb to where three brown glass bottles now grace the side table. “The brandy’s better than you lot deserve, but don’t drink from the short one. That’s the peach flavored dragon piss Varric requested, Maker knows why.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Varric protests.

“It’s _Orleisian_ ,” Isabela says disdainfully.

“I don’t know about either of them, really,” Merrill says somewhat mournfully as she peers into her cup. “On their own they both mostly tasted like burning, so I thought I’d see if mixing them together helped, but now I just have twice as much to manage… you don’t think this would hurt your plants, would it Hawke? Looks like they need to be watered anyway…”

“You did _what_ ,” Isabela says, aghast, and Hawke hastens to the other side of the room before she gets drawn further into that debate. It is only because she’s closer to the door that she hears the soft knock—the sound frail and timid compared to the boisterous energy in the room.

Hawke moves to the door and pulls it open without thought, and standing there, a dark shape against the sudden blinding white glow of the street, is Fenris. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she’d somehow forgotten she’d been awaiting his arrival with ever-increasing anxiety.

“You came,” she says, half-breathless. She means to step aside to let him in, but her feet are moving of their own accord, and she finds herself next to him out on the entryway, unable to keep her gaze from floating up and down the street. Where she had expected dark puddles and stone is now a soft blanket of fresh snow, glittering flakes still spinning down from above.

“I did,” Fenris says, a wry amusement creeping into his voice. “Despite the weather.”

“I hadn’t realized it had started snowing,” Hawke says, reaching out a hand to catch the falling crystals. They melt immediately as they touch her skin, tiny pinpricks of cold against the heat of her palm. “I guess I assumed that storm would be just rain, after the last snowfall melted two weeks ago.” She inhales deeply, the freezing air nearly aching inside her lungs. The pain of it is sharper than she would expect, already working through her house robe and draining the feeling out of her nose and ears. The sheer physicality of it forces back the memories she’s trying to avoid, tethering her to the here and now.

Fenris coughs, fidgeting back and forth. “Should I come in?” he asks awkwardly, despite being closer to the door than Hawke herself. When she turns to look at him, she is startled to realize how close they stand on the landing, his face a mere handspan from her own.

“Oh!” she says, feeling her cheeks flush red. “Yes, sorry, please—I just got distracted—” Hawke awkwardly slides past him again, and into the room so he can follow her inside properly. The warmth hits her skin like a wall, with the smells of pine and nutmeg and, yes, the faint aroma of peach liquor.

Bodahn or Orana has moved the food out into the main room, and her friends sit here and there, disdaining tables in favor armchairs or standing to continue their conversations. But the minor chaos feels right, somehow, or at least it does not produce the sting she might have expected. Fenris says something she doesn’t quite catch as Varric waves them over, and then there is another chill blast from the entryway as Aveline and Donnic arrive.

Hawke smiles as she greets them, her body bantering cheerfully as she eats the food she doesn’t remember putting on her plate, her mind drifting slowly behind the rest of her in the hubbub. Whatever she felt in the kitchen is close still, rising through her emptiness, unavoidable and vast. But this is no time for tears, not with everyone watching.

So she smiles as best she can manage as everyone around her celebrates, hoping it looks less like a grimace than it feels. Merrill shows them all how to finish cooking the hearthcakes, holding them with tongs above the hearth, rolling her wrist to keep the edges from burning and the crumbly dough from dropping pieces into the fire. She insists it’s not really the proper way to do it, but everyone wants to have a go anyway—Varric badly burns his, much to Isabela’s delight. Anders, his hands nimble and practiced from surgery, gets his nearly as perfect as Merrill’s on his first try. Hawke thinks it’s the first time she’s seen him actually focus fully on something that’s not healing for the helpless—or killing for her—in weeks. He hands his second one to Hawke, nearly soaked in honey, and it crunches sweetly between her teeth.

Orana retreats to a chair in the corner, strumming her lute and hiding her shyness behind the instrument’s plucked melody. Hawke’s dog barks in excitement, Merrill laughing as she collapses to the floor with the animal, giggling as the squirming bundle of fur eagerly licks her face. Hawke hovers at the edge of the room, watching them all.

Everything is—fine. She doesn’t feel happy. In a way, the warmth and light almost make her feel as though the every-present vortex of anguish is even stronger, threatening to overwhelm her with everything she has not been able to feel for months now.

“Are you all right?” Fenris asks, tentatively. She must have noticed him come stand beside her, on some level—when _isn’t_ she secretly paying attention to wherever in the room he stands?—but she has been more distracted than usual tonight. When she glances over, he wears the same worried expression she’s grown so accustomed to seeing in his gaze the past few months.

“No,” she answers quietly, the stark admission dropping from her lips before she can fumble it away with her usual brush-offs or jokes. “Not yet.”

“I… am sorry,” he tells her. Mercifully, his voice does not contain the pity she has spent so long avoiding. “I know there isn’t anything I can do. But…”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, taking a deep breath to quell the flood threatening to break its way out of her. “Just—you being here. It helps. Thank you.”

She feels the tentative brush of back of his hand, his fingers twining between her own as she twists her wrist to open her palm to him.

She squeezes his hand, harder than she means to—but, tonight, she allows herself the selfish impulse. He won’t stay, not with her, the way she wants—which is probably for the best right now, because she can’t help but think _she’d_ be the one ending the night in tears and a desire to be alone with her memories. But for now, she clings to him, holding on in a world where everything has seemed so lost, but he still stands like an anchor.

           

 

She hadn’t thought it was already so late, but a loud _CLANG, CLANG, CLANG_ suddenly drums its way into the room, overpowering the voices inside. Merrill and Orana both squeal in excitement, and Isabella throws open the front door to let in the full sound of the midnight bells, as well as a gusting drift of snow. The Viscount’s Keep rings the hour alongside the Chantry, the sound reverberating down the streets of Hightown from above. Past the doorway, she can see other houses opening their doors and windows, golden light spilling out onto the blue-white snow of the street.

Hawke finds a full glass being pushed into her hand, and the sharp _clink_ of its tap against Aveline’s and Varric’s toast is lost in the din. She toasts and takes three more sips with the others by the time the twelfth set of ringing peels end, the sound fading until echoes drift down to them like ghosts of the previous year.

“Happy Wintermarch,” Bodahn cheerfully calls to her through the crowd, beaming as he lifts his glass in the air. Hawke smiles back, rising hers automatically in reply. A new year. At least this one couldn’t possibly be as bad as the last.

“It’s over,” she says, too quietly for anyone but Fenris to hear. With a start, Hawke realizes that she is still holding his hand. He hasn’t said anything since she took it, not that she could hear over the bells, anyway. The others—or at least the least drunk of them—have probably noticed by now, but she does not want to let go. Not while there is so little still holding her together.

He does not say anything, but he does not pull away, letting her squeeze his fingers tightly, fighting back against the grief making its home in the hollow of her throat. So Hawke does not let go, and watches her new family laugh in celebration, while the golden warmth of the hearth-fire doggedly fights against the swirling chill of winter through the still-open door.

  

 

 

 

 

> _That like the leaves after a long winter, peace too might return to the land._
> 
> _\-- Chant of Light, Canticle of Apotheosis 1:4  
>  _

**Author's Note:**

> thiiiiis is very very late! but i hope you enjoyed it anyway. there was supposed to be more fluff in there than ended up coming out because of who i am as a person, probably.
> 
> anyway ive spent uhhhh at least 3 fics this year trying to cover up the fact that i dont remember what i named the dog in DA2 and trying to play it off as generic anyone-can-fill-in-what-they-like instead, heyo


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